


Connor Get You Priorities Straight

by triptocaine



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M, Multi, Post-Game, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triptocaine/pseuds/triptocaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles of Mason living at the Homestead and Connor being a little less like Connor around the writer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snowfall and Stories

**Author's Note:**

> This one was done during the East Coast blizzard Nemo. Couldn't really do much except write.

If someone had told Mason that four days after he was freed from the prison by his whistling friend that it would still be snowing, he would probably throw a fit. And by throwing a fit, he might of have attempted to throw a box off of its place only to fail.

But there he was, sitting down at his desk, wrapped in wool blankets and sitting with his knees to his chest to make sure his feet didn't go numb, watching the snow fall outside. It was mythical, really. Tiny drops of frozen tears falling as feathers to the white ground below.

The writer's hand began to move, picking up the quill and pressing it to the parchment laid perfectly on the desk, waiting. Whatever he was beginning to write, it would be fixed later. He knew it. There was nothing written that wouldn't be edited at least ten times in his mind.

He didn't hear the door slowly creak open to show the Assassin standing there. He didn't hear the soft footsteps over to his desk. What he did feel was when the tanned hand gently took his own off the paper and carefully laced their fingers together.

Mason sat there; stunned for a moment before recognizing that Connor's hands were freezing.

"You… were outside?" the writer mumbled as he shifted in his seat and brought some of his blanket up.

"Yes," the stoic man responded. "One of the horses got out."

Mason let out a soft huff before turning the Native and taking both his hands, wrapping them in his own and then wrapping that in the wool blankets. Connor was the one to stare at the hands while Mason watched the snow.

It was a quiet moment between the two. The only sounds were of their breathing and the howling of the wind outside. Neither of them knew how much time had passed until the room started to grow darker. It was then that the writer pulled his hands away to reach into one of the desk drawers and grabbed a couple matches before lighting up his three candles on the corner of his desk.

"What is that?" Connor finally broke the silence and gently picked up a book from off the desk. He stared at it, as if it were unknown to him. He knew what it was.

"That's a book, Connor," the writer said, a bit of a tone in his voice. "I know you at least know that. It's called _Clarissa_ , or _The History of a Young Lady_ by Samuel Richardson. This is my copy of it."

The Assassin stared at him before shifting and sitting down on the floor and handing the book back up to Mason.

"It sounds like a good story," he said softly as the other male took the book back.

"Would you like to borrow it?"

"I can't," he began. "But could you read it to me?"

Mason sat there, confused for a moment before nodding and bringing the candles just a little bit closer. Opening the book up, he cleared his throat and began to read aloud the story of Clarissa. Connor never moved and never interrupted all the while the wind howled outside and the snow continued to fall.


	2. One Shared Blanket on a Cold Floor

Winter was such a funny season. The days were shorter and the winds blew with a frozen secret that dared to be whispered against snow and ice. The sunset brought pastels to life and let the stars shine their brightest. It was beautiful and brutal with its subzero temperatures and harsh winds that threatened to freeze bone and blood.

And inside, it wasn't much different. The fire was warm, but it was only allowed in two rooms. One in the kitchen (to make sure they could have warm soup and hot tea to warm them from working in the snow), and the other was in the living room which they cleared of all furniture and set down several blankets as beds with a few scattered pillows. It wasn't much, but it kept all of them warm when it was cold everywhere else.

Mason was one of the lucky ones that didn't do much work outside. He manned the paper work and helped clean up around where they lived, and, in fact suffered by running around inside the homestead to retrieve small items or clothes for everyone else. He thought maybe wearing socks and boots would help, but it seemed the cold was merciless when it came time for those jobs. If he was luckier, he'd be able to sit down and put his feet by the on-going fire and wait until they warmed up and he was off on his next small job. He had to work if he wanted to stay in the building. He didn't want to try and go find his own place to live only to be found by someone and brought back to that wretched Hell hole.

It was nice though, during winter; especially during nightfall. Everyone would wrap themselves up in their own personal blanket and hold cups of sweetened tea or bitter coffee (Mason preferred just a warm cup of water; he didn't need any caffeine) and would tell stories of their lives before the homestead. There was one person who spoke very rarely.

Connor.

He sat there, without a drink, no blanket, draped in his hooded cloak with this permanent scowl that never seemed to lift even when others were laughing at a joke or a mishap. He sat there, quiet and stoic. Mason always wondered why he did. Never spoke, never laughed. He didn't prod or pinch at the native, never wanting to try and barge into his personal life. But he wanted too.

Ad nightfall grew from its early darkness to its evening glow, people had slowly drifted off into their personal corners and slipped away into slumber. Mason was one of the last few ones, telling Connor he needn't stay up to watch over them like a hawk and he too should sleep.

It must've been far into the night that the writer finally curled up against the wall, far enough away from the fire so he wasn't overheating, but close enough to be warm. He might have only just started drifting off when he felt a warm, large and calloused hand just above his temple. Lifting his head, aggravated someone was waking him up, he grumbled a bit and sat up, sitting eye-to-eye with Connor.

"I was just falling asleep," the writer groggily slurred.

"I understand, my friend," Connor began. He sounded… held-back, hesitant if Mason dared. "I was wondering if I could join you." That's what threw Mason for the loop. It seemed off to him. But, at this point, he wasn't going to argue. He was tired and half-asleep while sitting up.

Nodding, he started to lay back down, Connor pulling him close and fixing their bodies so he was spooning the writer.

Mason didn't regret curling up like this. The assassin added heat to his body and he was definitely a mass that kept the heat in too. Every time one of them would shift, the writer would let out a soft whimper from the cold rushing over their warm bodies.

Finally, he noticed something. The man pressed against his back wasn't sleeping.

"Connor?" the writer whispered, hands trying to desperately stay warm under the blanket as he received a simple grunt in return. "Why are we like this right now?"

It was a simple question, really. And Mason was hoping the answer would be a simple one. A simple little 'because it is cold and you looked cold'. Simple. Simple, simple, simple. Please be a simple answer.

"I had a vision you were dying in my arms," the other male whispered in response, low and into the writer's ear. "I wanted to make sure you were still here and I did not want the vision to come true."

"Oh," was Mason's response. That. Was that simple? He wasn't entirely positive. The two shifted once more before finally finding the one spot of complete comfort.

It ended up being a different position altogether. There they were, legs partially tangled with Connor's arm under Mason's head and the two draping one arm over the other's waist. The writer could only hope that by morning they wouldn't be like this. This was not a position to be in for public eyes.

"Connor?"

A soft grunt.

"It's called a nightmare. And it won't happen. Not anytime soon."

"At least," the assassin spoke, pressing his lips to the writer's forehead. "Not without my say-so."

That caused the writer to let out a soft laugh and smile just a little bit more.

"Goodnight Connor."

Another grunt.


	3. Of Bitter Tea and Sniffles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse other than my birthday and birth-weekend. And midterms. And PWI: Sirens of War. Shutup. I'm tired and I think tipsy on life right now. This one should be taken with a grain of salt. Or sand. Or cocaine. However the saying goes.

Winter seemed to leave like an old man with broken knees dragging a large bag of stones and dynamite behind him. Long and agonizing. But Mason wasn't going to complain; the winter brought him solace and inspiration that prison could not. He would allow his eyes to close and breathe in frigid air to watch it disappear in a puff of pure white. He would lean back against his chair and allow his fingers to move on their own as he scribed away on pages he wasn't fully staring at.

It would be when he heard a loud knock on his door and a couple thumps that introduced the cloaked assassin to the cold room. The writer turned around and stared at the native, furrowing his brow. The larger male was wet, snow-covered and shivering.

"Were you hunting?" the brunette asked, not bothering to think twice about what he should've asked.

"No, I was out helping Prudence carry firewood in," Connor calmly responded. "She didn't want to take too many trips back and forth because of Hunter."

"You're soaking wet," Mason finally chimed before holding out his hands. "Give me your cloak; I'll go clean it for you."

Connor paused for a moment, staring at the offered hand before removing a few of his harnesses and slipping his cold and wet cloak off and handing it to Mason. When fingers just barely touched, a sudden shockwave went through their arms. Mason's heart stammered, and Connor's lips twitched.

"You're _freezing_ , Connor," the writer let out. "Go to the fireplace and stay there." Before the shock could run through their arms again, Mason bundled the cloak up and headed off, pushing the native back downstairs. Why would he come upstairs in the first place?

* * *

Needless to say when Mason had returned to where he told Connor to go, the assassin was wrapped up in a scratchy blanket, eyes baggy and lips slightly parted breathing heavily and sniffling constantly. Well that was something he should have expected that but he didn't. Huffing, the writer went over and sat down next to the native and held onto the cloak.

"I feel awful," Connor mumbled under his heavy breath.

"Because you are awful," Mason said with a smile only to receive an unamused glance. "So I will personally take care of you and ban you from going outside for the next few days, possibly weeks."

"What-" Connor attempted to but in.

"Nothing you can say will change my mind," the writer started, pushing himself up off the ground. "You are to stay seated right where you are and not move until I feel you are fit to."

"Mason-"

"I will tie you to the floor if I have to, you are not moving."

"Ma-"

"No! I'm getting you something to drink."

With the final word from the writer, the native gave an annoyed groan as he lay down on the floor obediently and angrily. He could smell the triumphant and smug smirk and laughter coming from Mason as the writer walked off and disappeared for only a moment.

"Mason," came the first clogged up sound from Connor.

"Mason."

No response.

"Mason _uh_."

"What do you want Connor? Your tea isn't ready!"

Oh no. Mason was making tea. He was just expecting some warm water, maybe some fruit. But tea? There was one thing Mason wasn't good at doing at that is making tea. He could already feel the crunch of old tea leaves in his mouth, leaving the bitter aftertaste that wasn't good for anyone. He mentally and physically braced himself for the inevitable destruction of his taste buds as the writer finally walked through the door and handed the small cup to the sitting assassin.

"Drink," he demanded as he carefully sat down on the floor next to Connor and kept his hands out with the cup in it.

The native was hesitant at first before he took the small cup, taking even more time to try and take his first sip. Finally getting it down, there it was—the crunch of tea leaves and the bitter taste. Connor sniffled and wiped his mouth.

"How long will you be taking care of me?" the assassin muttered, forcing down another mouthful of tea.

Mason let out a soft laugh as he gave a crooked grin to the other seated male.

"Three cups a day until you'rer better."


	4. They Are Not Childish Fears, to Be Honest

The weather was becoming warmer now, but still chilly at nights. The house only ran the fire place when it became dark so they could huddle around it and stay warm. And by ‘they’, it is only Connor and Mason left in the main house. Everyone finished up any work they had to do when the snow finally melted off the ground to live in their own homes. So it became quiet in the house, the occasional small talk or conversations between the writer and the assassin. But, they seemed to be dwindling down to very little, the conversations and small talk. Connor was out and about more doing missions, taking down the redcoats and any sort of renegade. So Mason was alone, most of the time.

 

He hated it.

 

And loved it.

 

He loved it because it got him the time away from people he needed. In prison, he didn’t get much of that and when he did, he cherished it. But even then, there were calls and noises he didn’t want to hear or be affiliated with. So the silence depicted by sweet smelling wind and the mingling of leaves and whistling gales, made it all the better.

 

He hated it because, well, Connor wasn’t there. He enjoyed the native’s company. He found himself craving more of the assassins’s attention than normal. He wanted Connor to be there by his side, whether if they were talking or not, just the presence of the other male made him feel more… serene? Content. Pleased, no. Wait, yes. No, what is he thinking about?

 

Connor was the first friend Mason had since he was a child. And that is too long of a time to not have such an intimate relationship with someone.

 

The soft pitter of rain against the windows caused Mason to look up and see the streams of water slowly making their way down the glass, pooling at the sill. Must be a flash storm, it never gets this hard so suddenly. He turned back to the book he was reading. It was nice that Connor would get him books and ask only for Mason to read it to him in return. He’s never read this many books since before he was locked up.

 

The first crash of thunder was what caused Mason to leap from his chair and stand up, gripping onto his book until his knuckles turned white. His heart raced inside of his chest, pressing up against its walls.

 

Another thing he didn’t like. Thunderstorms. They reminded him of gunshots and war, something he as never really keen on. And more or less, afraid of.

 

And it didn’t help with it becoming night and there was already very little light in the room. With his wild imaginations, the night caused his life to be more terrifying than it needed to be. Quickly, he placed his book down and ran over to the fire place, finding the matches and kindling. Ohhh, he needed Connor for this! He was supposed to be back a few hours ago!

 

Oh no. What if… what… no! He couldn’t think like that!

 

_CRASH._

 

Mason jumped again, dropping the matches around his feet. His heart stammered and shuttered as he tried to get everything under control and get the fire going before it got too dark. When was the last time he was alone during the night with a thunderstorm going on?

 

When he was a child.

 

Of course. At this point in his adult life, he’d think that these childish fears would strip away from him. But apparently not. Finally getting a small flame in the pit, he tried as much as he possibly could to start it up more. He needed light and heat. The rain wasn’t letting up and-

 

_BA- CRASH-crackle._

He was going to die. He might as well accept his fate now and put the fire out and lay on the floor. His heart raced more inside his chest, echoing and reverberating in his ears and his head, daring to burst through and lie next to him on the floor.

 

Finally managing to get a flame steadily going in the pit, he placed a few smaller logs in as the small fire grew and lit up the room. Oh, yes. Much better. Another crash of thunder made the writer jump as he curled up next to the fire.

 

Then take a moment. There it is, in the corner of your eye. Something moving. In a split second you could be dead.

 

Mason turned violently to see there was nothing there before going to the corner at the far end of the room and putting his back to the wall. Another two crashes. Mason was sure he would not make the night and be sane in the morning.

 

And just when he thought the night couldn’t get any worse, he heard the floor boards creaking beneath someone’s feet.

Oh.

_No._

 

Someone.

_Is in the house._

 

And Connor isn’t present. That’s it. Mason was dead. He’s dead. Connor would find him on the floor with a simmering fire and blood everywhere and he’s dead. He’d be buried in the backyard, he’s dead.

 

He’s de—

 

“Mason?”

 

Oh.

_Yes._

 

Mason stood up and ran to the sound of the voice, wrapping his arms around the larger male’s neck and gripped tight. The smell of dust after rain and muddied paths filled his senses. It was Connor. Strong arms returned the tight embrace, pulling the two bodies closer. It wasn’t until the writer broke the hug to shove at the native’s arms.

 

“Don’t scare me like that!” he frowned as he looked up to meet brown eyes. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again!”

 

“Mason,” Connor let out almost exhausted by the energy being forced upon him. “Why are you so upset?”

 

“You were supposed to be here two hours ago!” the writer exclaimed.

 

“I’m sorry,” the assassin whispered in response as he reached out and embraced the brunette and kissed his forehead. “I’m sorry.”


	5. One Hot Night Equals One Bad Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ConnorMason fandom is slowly rising if you've checked the Mason Weems tag on tumblr at all. It went from two posts to about ten. Or something.
> 
> This was long over-due.
> 
> I missed writing these two.

The summer couldn't get any hotter, Mason would think. And just when three in the afternoon would roll along, he was always proved wrong. It could get hotter, and it never cooled down. And what was even worse was that the season hadn't hit August yet. It was still just the first few days, weeks (the heat made the write lose track of time) even, after the Summer Solstice. The sun was up far too early and went down far too late for Mason's like. He wanted winter back. He wanted it and craved it.

He craved the cold days and colder nights so he could wrap himself up inside of a blanket and sit by the fire with Connor curled up against his back.

…that. That was a strange thought. He knew he enjoyed the assassin's company, but never had he thought about being physical with the native. Wrong words for that. He never really thought about—there was no way to put this into proper words.

He realized that Connor was getting more and more on his mind than anyone, or rather, anything else. He couldn't get his face out of his mind. He couldn't get his voice out of his ears. His mind would always go to when the other male would kiss his temple or cheek tenderly; as if he kissed too hard it would break the writer. And maybe it would, he'd never know. But each memory of a kiss would make his heart jump just a little inside his chest and his breath would catch in his throat. His dreams would return to the night by the fire where they huddled close to each other and how their fingers lace gently with one another.

It was all very surreal, his dream of that night. Each time he dreamt it, it would end a little differently. Once with Connor getting up and leaving him while he was still awake; another ending with them huddled face-to-face rather than chest-to-back. There was one with Connor humming something in his ear. But his favourite was the one that took on the shapes and movements of dust particles, where the image of his dream wasn't entirely there and it was just a faded image with blurred lines and incoherent words. Connor would sit up and loom over Mason for a moment, the specks of the image swirling like flames licking at each other and then the native would lean down to press their foreheads together.

Mason would always wake up in a strange heat that he couldn't quite put his finger on and there was a strange silence that took over him when the assassin was in the room.

The writer shook his head as he found himself hating summer again as he felt the sweat trickle down the back of his neck and down his face, slipping from his temple to his chin in such a finite movement, never breaking from the trail it so desired.

He hated summer.

He hated heat.

And with the questions running through his mind now, he hated thinking. He hated trying to make sense of the unknown emotions coursing through his body, leaving behind a gentle vibration as if someone just plucked the string on a cello that makes the lowest note but the sweetest sound.

He hated it.

He hated how he couldn't put a word on that sensation (and as a writer, he hated how there was no word in his vocabulary that he knew of to even compare it to) that made his skin hum and leave goose bumps in its wake in waves of unknown territory.

He  _hated_  it.

And he found himself in a cabinet he'd never really had in his own life, one with spirits and bitter tasting drinks.

He found himself with a bottle of whiskey and a single cup, sitting at the small dining table.

The sound of liquid filling the first cup mesmerized his mind. He took the first sip and winced before gulping down the rest of it.

Connor made his mind reel, jumble, sing and dance, clap his hands and spin around while in a rainstorm all at once that he couldn't define. He couldn't define what he was feeling.

Second cup.

Connor made him feel dizzy and frozen at the same time, unsure of whether or not to stande still like a soldier or faint and fall like a damsel in distress. He made his knees buckle and legs turn to liquid to fall down to his side to stare up and witness the light shine behind the native's head, illuminating him in such a way that would cause men of faith to believe they've found their savior.

Third cup.

Connor Kenway made him feel safe and sound from any danger, whether it be a redcoat or a bear out for a hunt to feed its children. He made him feel like he could climb any mountain he wanted to, swim any distance until his fingers turned to prunes, run to where the trees disappear and all there is is plains of golden grass and miles of empty sand, and jump so high he would land on a billowed cloud that would help him stay up and feel as though he would never hit the ground again.

Fourth cup.

Connor. Kenway.

Fifth cup.

By now the bottle of whiskey was nearly empties and Mason could barely see straight, let alone let his mouth process any of the words he was thinking. His forehead was pressed against the small table and he didn't move when the door opened and in walked in the sensation-starting assassin.

"Mason," the native began, voice somewhat irritated. "Where have you been all day, we've needed help around the homestead and yo—"

"Shhhh," came the soft, interrupted reply. He held his hand up, the one holding the half-emptied glass, one finger sticking straight up to hush the man behind him.

"Are you drunk?" the native responded, brow furrowed and voice with a bitter bite.

"Only," the writer tried, lifting his head to reveal the red press mark from the table. "Only… only b-because you… you,  _sir_ , are make… making me think things I shou'nt."

"I can't believe this," Connor frowned as he took the almost empty bottle of whiskey away from the writer and placed it back into the cabinet. "Can you stand?"

There came grumble from the brunette, holding onto his glass so Connor couldn't remove it from him. There was an eye roll from the assassin as he put an arm around the thinner male and hoisted him onto his feet. The writer stood for a moment, his legs wobbling beneath him. His world was spinning and he was sure the door wasn't over there…

"Why are you even drinking, Mason?" the question was finally asked as the head of the writer pressed onto the other's shoulder as they made their way upstairs.

"B-because," came the slurred response. "You.  _You_  have… have been making me feel s-so… confused. Y-you've been keepin' mah mind bu-… busy with words and poems and eeeemo _tions_  that I don't h-have names for."

Finally up the stairs, Connor placed Mason on the bed and took the glass from him and put it on the other side of the room. When the native came back to tuck in the writer, a hand gently took his own, staring at the difference in skin tone.

Why was he so interested in that?

"Mason, go to bed," came the sharp tone.

"N-not without you," the messy response.

"I cannot sleep with you."

"W… why?"

"Because—I… I just cannot."

"You… did b-before! In wi-winter. By the fiiiiire."

"It is in the past."

"A-and today is the present-uh. Ssso make it… make it happen."

"I  _cannot_  sleep with you."

"Who… who says?"

That finally struck Connor, his face going completely blank. He managed to get his hand out from the writer's grip who just made a small sound of protest. Going to the door, he held the handle with an iron grip, panting slightly as he heard the soft whimpers from the drunken brunette. He furrowed his brow tightly before locking the door and removing most of his gear and cloak. He couldn't believe he was doing this.

Climbing into the bed with the whiskey-smelling male, he positioned them so they were huddled close to each other, just as before which finally silenced the writer.

In the morning, before the sun rose, Mason was finding himself gripped onto the frame of a toilet and retching into it. His head throbbed, pulsing against his temples and vibrating against his forehead. It was still hot, and he was hung over. This is why he didn't drink. This. Puking inside of a bowl. The night before was a blur. He just remembered being brought up to a room and something large and firm against his back.

There came a soft knocking from the bathroom door and his tired and groggy self looked up. There stood Connor with an almost apologetic look on his face.

"Please tell me I didn't do anything  _stupid_ ," Mason let out softly, trying to calm his nerves.

"You drank too much whiskey," was the answer he received from Connor. The both of them let out a soft laugh. Alright, so he didn't do anything to hurt Connor and his relationship, which he was sure why he started drinking the whiskey in the first place.

"What did I say?" the writer asked, holding his head as he let out more fluids, groaning after.

"Things, I suppose," was what he got in return.

"Well that isn't vague or anything," Mason retorted.

Another laugh from them both.

Connor knelt down next to the hung over male and rubbed his back. Mason was sure that where the assassin's fingers touched, goose bumps and fire was left in their wake. He looked up, eyes turned dark purple from not getting enough sleep. When he did look up, lips gently pressed themselves against the writer's forehead, right between his eyes and a soft chuckle (like low chimes on a windy day) thrummed near his skin.

"Get well, Mason," the native spoke as he stood back up. "I'll be by later to check up on you. I have work to do."

And Mason was left alone to himself as he watched Connor walk off and down the stairs to attend to his own things.


	6. Upside-down and Head Over Heels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep giving long overdue chapters. I'm an awful person. This one wasn't because I was lazy, but it was because I was having a hard time thinking of substance. It wasn't until I was out and about with my Connor (my girlfriend) and she just goes 'What if you wrote a chapter about Mason getting lost in the fog?' And I had to stop and think about it and just went 'It's perfect'.  
> Also, there is something in this chapter that is also long overdue for substance. I surrendered to that bit.

The weather was dropping in temperature again. It had been since his big 'mistake', as Connor put it lightly. 'You could have hurt yourself,' he said in the days between then and now. 'What if you had decided to go out and ended up dead in a river!' he would say another time. 'I can't think about losing you.'

That one was Mason's favourite. Not in the sense that he thought it sounded the most motherly-scolding type, but in the actual emotion of loss and regret. Connor constantly beat himself up about the writer getting drunk. He'd hide the whiskey; he'd hide anything resembling liquor or spirits. And the writer wasn't exactly sure if it was cute or obnoxious. It became no matter to him shortly after when during the early months of autumn that Connor had to leave. Not to New York or Boston. No. To the sea.

Connor was leaving for a month or two. But it was what happened to Mason that surprised even Mason. His heart shattered when Connor told him. A Parisian champagne bottle leaving thin and dainty hands to fall and spin to the ground as the contents splashed and shards flew the moment the glass hit the floor. A hundred thousand pieces, maybe more. He wanted to hug Connor and beg for him to not leave. He wanted to hold his face, running his thumbs along the native's cheekbones.

He wanted to kiss him.

That was when Mason knew something was up. There was a reason he got drunk before, and a reason he was having these fantasies now. It was the man standing in front of him. It was the man he bid farewell on the docks, holding his hand with fingers laced together until the moment he stepped onto the ramp. It was the man he waved one final goodbye to until he couldn't see the ship on the horizon.

Mason wished he could have watched that scene from another perspective. He wanted to see his own face, eyebrows tilted down with his eyes wet. He wanted to watch their fingers unlace, slowly, dreadfully, not knowing if they would see one another again. He wanted to know what Connor looked like at that good-bye. What he was thinking.

The writer woke up the next morning with a list of chores to do. Now with Connor gone, he had more work on his hands aside from bookkeeping. He wasn't so sure he was excited about that. But he made a deal: he had to work to live on the homestead.

Nineteen days passed. Every night, Mason would go to sleep with cold fingers and cold toes. He would make his own fire as they had done before in the previous winter. He would sit in front of it, alone, with an itchy blanket over his shoulders. He would watch the wood crackle and split, mesmerized by its tempting licks and swirls of flame. He would be so distracted that he'd forget to put another log on until it was nothing but smolders.

He wished Connor was back. He wished he would place those large, brutal and merciless hands around the writer's waist and turn them into soft, gentle and caring hands. Mason would put his own around the other's neck, slipping his hood off to reveal a strong jaw and dark brown eyes. He wouldn't know how long they'd stay like that. But it felt right in the writer's head.

Twenty more days passed and the only thing on his mind was Connor. Even when there were splinters in his fingers and aches in his back, he only thought of Connor.

Another four and he was surely losing his mind, afraid that he wouldn't see the native ever again to have that long lasting regret of never telling him how he felt.

Another ten days went by and there was no kindling for the fire pit. Mason hadn't gone out the previous days when he should have as the pile had gotten lower. Now there was nothing. It was cold, and it looked grey outside and he had no kindling. Grabbing his boots and the wool coat, the one Connor had given him almost… almost a year ago now, Mason made his way outside.

Fog. Extremely dense fog. Four feet in front of him was as much as he could see. The writer gave a soft huff as he started to walk. He didn't care how much fog was in his way, he was getting kindling, and he was getting it now because he wanted a fire.

Though, he wished he had grabbed some form of string, or anything to help leave a trail behind him, because if didn't take long for him to get lost in the fog. He tried to find his way to a path, but he was lead to another tree, or a section of high bushes, or to a cliff-face. He wished he had worked on memorizing this place more than just the path so he knew where he was going. And there honestly wasn't much for kindling sticks or twigs, which surprised him.

He managed to find a hill, upwards, and thought to himself that this probably lead back to the home that Connor and he lived in, for the most part. But he was soon led to a different pathway that may have brought him further into darker woods, with more and more fog. This was getting out of hand. But he wasn't sure if he should turn around. What if that just got him more lost?

Walking around some more, he finally saw a pile of what looked like old and dead branches lying down. Letting out a sigh of relief, he made his way over to the pile and before he knew it, there was a sharp pain in his ankles and his body was yanked upside down and swinging back and forth. His hands were dangling above (below?) his head just about a foot off the ground.

"Oi! I think we got ourselves something!" Mason overhead from a bit of ways away.

"D-don't shoot!" he called back worried he was going to get a bullet through his stomach.

As his body swung and spun and as he tried to get himself to calm down from the sudden world flip, he watched as three hunters came into view from the fog. He couldn't focus on their faces because all he could feel was himself grow dizzy.

"Well hello there," one spoke, grabbing the writer's feet to keep him from spinning and swaying any more. "Looks like we caught ourselves an old friend."

Oh  _no._

Mason looked up, seeing all too familiar faces that would leer at him from behind iron bars. This was not good. Well, if Connor is alive, Mason is dead. If Connor is dead, Mason will see him in the next life. The moment he felt hands on his hips, he was sure a knife would follow. But when they started to pat him down, he got concerned. Not for his life, but from the fact he was being patted down.

"Nothing on him," the second man spoke. "Leave him for the bears! I'm sure they'll love their food on a rope." Laughter came from all three before Mason felt a blunt object ram against his head. His vision faded as he was pushed and was spinning and swinging again.

It was the strange, wet and warm feeling against his hand that made Mason's eyes fluttered open. He was half-expecting to see his own body being mutilated by a bear or by some form or predator. But there was the non-moving dense fog and one other thing. A doe. Her eyes were wide and serene with her warm and wet nose sniffing his hand and her tongue lapping at his fingers.

"Hello there," he whispered, head throbbing from being upside down. He noticed he was still hanging.

The doe looked up suddenly, ears perked and neck tall. Mason didn't make another sound, waiting for a response from her. He smiled. She moved closer and started sniffing at his cheek. He tried not to make a sound from the tickling sensation it brought on.

It was when the doe perked back up, her ears twitching to find the source of some noise that she was hearing and Mason could not. It didn't take long for her to quickly bound off in some direction that the writer could not comprehend. He tried to open his eyes more, try to see if he was in danger.

A form. Human. Oh no. Not the hunters again. Please don't let it be the hunters. Mason tried to lift himself up, but couldn't even move.

"Mason?"

Connor Kenway. Connor Kenway's voice. Connor Kenway's body. Connor Kenway's being. Connor Kenway's everything. He could see him next to him now. A large hand carefully placed itself behind Mason's head—the other on his mid-back as he was slowly lifted up. Things went blurry and the writer felt nauseous as he was lifted up. His feet were suddenly lowered as well. How did Connor do that? Wait. He was still suspended.

"I'm dead aren't I?" Mason began, his voice low and slurred. "The afterlife is fog, doe's and Connor Kenway."

Movement began to happen as he was brought through the fog. The dark outlines of trees passed by them, and the sounds of the doe still running amok was the only other sound than his own breathing and the soft crunch of leaves beneath Connor's feet.

He was sure it was Connor.

He was sure of it.

The next thing that Mason even remotely remembered was waking up next to the warmth of a crackling fire. Kindling. Was that all a dream? Sitting up, he felt a sharp pain in his ankles and a dull throb in his head. No, definitely not a dream. So that meant…!

"Connor?" Mason called out into the house.

Nothing. He should have known. He probably ended up falling and walking himself back to the homestead. Somehow. He placed his head back down on the warm pillow.

…that had buttons.

Mason sat back up and stared down at his 'pillow'. This was… Connor's cloak! Mason's heart jumped at the sight of it as he picked it up and wrapped it around himself, slipping his arms through and curling up closer to the fire. The cloak was only big around the shoulders and chest. Well, it was big. But it didn't look oversized on him. Or at least, to him it didn't look oversized.

When he heard the sound of the door open, the sound of his own heart drummed in his ears. When Connor came around the corner with two armfuls of kindling, they both stopped and stared at each other. The native quickly dropped the twigs and branches into the bag near the fire place and made his way over to the writer.

"You're back," Mason said dumbly as he shifted himself to kneel when the other sat down in front of him.

"And you keep getting into trouble when I am not around," Connor responded.

"How many times have you rescued me now?"

"This is account number two, if you don't call every thunderstorm a rescue. It's much more if you do count them."

They both laughed.

"Then it might be upwards towards the twenties or thirties," Mason returned as he watched the large hand come to his wrist and gently clasp it. "I never really get to say thank you, do I?"

"There is no need to thank me," the native almost whispered.

"Please," the writer gestured, just as quiet. "Let me thank you."

The two of them locked eyes and Connor gave a soft nod.

This was it. This was the point of no return. Keeping the one hand that the other's was on where it was, the writer moved closer, leaning in and holding his breath. He was scared. This was wrong. This was right. He wanted to. He wanted to  _know_  if this was the right thing to do. Was it? His heart started to beat faster. His skin started getting goose bumps. He raised a hand to gently touch Connor's face, to run his thumb over his hard cheekbone, and even that was shaking.

"Mason?"

There. Contact. Lips on lips. A quaking mouth against a hard one. Sparks. Fire. Gunshots. The sound of a whistle leading him outside of a prison. The sensation of snow against his toes. Literature being read with light snowfall. Being held protectively next to a fire. Being sick with the taste of bitter tea leaves. A hug after a storm. The heat of being drunk on a summer day. The sharp pain of rope around his ankles. The hand on his gripped tighter. Oh no. He'd done something wrong. Mason pulled back with his face red and eyes looking down. He didn't think of anything to say, if he could even speak at this point.

"I shouldn't have," Mason finally pushed out. "I'll go."

And just as he was starting to stand up, the hand on his own yanked him back down and their chests were suddenly flush against each other and their foreheads lightly touching.

"How long," Connor more demanded than asked.

"When you made the promise to come back for me," Mason tried, his heart rate picking up speed as their eyes met.

"Me too."

Sparks. Fire. Gunshot.

Another kiss.


End file.
